Refuge
by CheshireRyan
Summary: Future fic. Santana's home and family are her refuge. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: I don't own _Glee._**

You knew that when you picked your field that it would be hard. It would have awesome times, yeah, but then there would be the horrible times. Times where you just wished you could rub on the baby's back or flick their foot and they'd miraculously start breathing, wake up and wail. But they don't. They won't. They can't.

Because they're dead.

You delivered a stillborn baby to two young parents from out of town today. It was an emergency call and you had gone racing to the clinic at five in the morning, not even having time for coffee or to kiss your wife and son goodbye for the day. The young woman was in intense pain, but she didn't want an epidural. The baby finally started crowning around nine at night and you knew from the minute you saw the monitors that it wouldn't end well.

The baby didn't have a heartbeat before you got there, according to your nurse. So, you scrubbed your hands and did your best to coach the woman through her labor. Once the baby was free, you cleaned her off as best as you could, wishing the young couple had had prenatal care. Maybe if they did, the baby might not have died. You handed her tiny body to the parents after clipping the tangled cord from around her neck.

Usually the babies in town were healthy, happy. This was the first stillbirth you had had since your rotations during your residency. Granted, you had to perform a few D and Cs, but those were different. Those weren't babies the parents had carried to term, weren't babies that the parents now looked at with heartbroken eyes and teary cheeks. You swallowed hard, knowing what had happened. The umbilical cord had managed to knot itself, loop itself around her tiny neck. Her nutrient source was cut off and she starved in-utero.

Your heart broke for them as they just sat there, laid there.

"Can you baptize her?" the young man asks. "Please?" His voice cracks on the last word. You offer to call a priest, a minister, but he declines and say that you'll be enough. You nod slowly. It's been a while since you've been to a baptism (other than your son's, because you barely remember that), but you know what to say. You get a small cup of water and wet your fingers, making a cross across the tiny body's forehead.

"I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen." The young man whispers the last word with you and _(his wife, partner, sister?)_ the young woman whimpers and starts crying even harder.

"Thank you," he says. You stay with them a while longer, waiting for your boss to come and offer condolences while the M.E. comes to take the body. You apologize, your heart hurting as you leave for home.

You cut the engine as soon as you pull onto your property, not caring that you just parked in the lawn that you've been trying to get to grow ever since you moved in here with your wife. Your arms and legs are heavy, tired. Your heart hurts, aches, breaks. You're not even sure that what lies in a crib inside your house can heal you just yet.

Your feet take you to your son's room, your arms pick him up and you cradle him to your chest. He's six months old and smells like baby powder, baby shampoo, and something tangy. You stick your nose in his curls and breathe in, trying to get the day out of your head.

"I'm so glad you're here, Tristy," you whisper to the top of his head as he grasps your shirt, trying to bring it to his mouth so he can chew on it. "I'm _so_ glad you're here. I don't think I could stand it if you weren't."

"Santana?" your wife's voice says from behind you. "Honey, what's wrong?" You turn, looking at her. She's beautiful in the moonlight, in nothing but a t-shirt. Your heart still aches, still hurts and breaks, but here, _here _is where you're safe. Your son is here, healthy and happy and chewing your t-shirt, and your wife is wonderful and peaceful and they make up your entire heart.

"I want him to stay with us tonight," you say, putting your nose back into his curls. "I need him to stay with us tonight." Your wife nods, following as you move past her to head into your room. Tristan's playpen is in there and you know that she'll probably move him in there after you fall asleep.

You lay down on the bed, setting your son on your chest where he still happily chews your shirt. For some reason, the worn cotton feels good on his sore gums. He's been teething and crying and driving the two of you insane. You can't wait until he has all his teeth and done with having a painful mouth. But his three little teeth are adorable, so you don't mind _too _much.

"What happened today?" your wife asks, her arm wrapping around your hips. Her smell mixes with Tristan's and you close your eyes and take a deep breath. You've loved her since you were ten years old, dated her since you were seventeen. She's the person that makes you feel the safest.

"Stillborn." That's all you have to say and she understands. She was there for the first one during your residency, bought you every ice cream flavor and multiple bottles of tequila and made you alcohol-floats which you both decided to never try again. But she's been there since day one and she understands how torn up you get.

"That poor family," she whispers, her voice sad. She presses a kiss to the side of your head, nuzzling her nose into your hair. "I'm so sorry, honey." You watch Tristan sleep, his little nose wrinkling. Here, in this bed with your wife and son is your safe haven. It's your sanctuary, where you go to get away from your bad days.

Your eyes start to grow heavy and you turn your face towards your wife. "I love you, Brittany." She smiles and kisses your forehead.

"I love you too, Santana."

"Thank you for being born." She presses another kiss to your forehead and moves down to your lips. "And thank you for our son."

"No problem," she says simply. You kiss her again and close your eyes, your nose filled with the smell of your family and the sounds of the cicadas outside your home. There will be more paperwork and a review tomorrow, but until then, you are here in your harbor, your refuge - your blessed little home with the two people who matter most in your life.


End file.
